Self Loathing and Holding Grudges

I'm working my way through a Beth Moore bible study on the Psalms of Ascent in a church life group. It's very good, and it's becoming very difficult for me to resist the change that God is trying to make in my heart.
Beth Moore said in one of her videos that self-loathing is a form of pride as well, because it's still all about you. As hard as I try I can't get that thought out of my head.
I'm a grade A self loather. I feel pretty douchy almost all the time, but I've gotten really adept at hiding it. With the exception of a comment here, a self deprecating shrug there and you would never know the onslaught of criticism and nastiness that my brain unleashes inside my head.
Since I started leading outreach, it's only gotten worse. But I was sort of expecting that. When I was praying about leading I was pretty sure I was also about to enter into a season of some serious growth and the inevitable pain that comes with growth (at least with me, does that happen to any of you?). But I wasn't really prepared for how ugly I would be to myself.

I was talking to Diane last night while we were waiting for the Olive Cheese Bread to bake and telling her about the last year. God has worked harder in me in the last year than I've ever allowed him to do before. It's quite frankly terrifying. The subject of this weeks part of the study was about forgiveness and how the Lord keeps no record of wrongs, and how if he did, no one could stand under that guilt.

I come from a long line of grudge holders. My mom's mom stayed mad at her step-mom for 70 years. SEVENTY.YEARS. That's a hell of a grudge. It's all about keeping a tally of who did you wrong when and how severely.
When I was 2 or 3 my Uncle Johnny died. Uncle Johnny would always be sleeping on my grandparents sofa, and when I would arrive I would go and climb up on his stomach, lightly pat his face and say, "Wake up Uncle Johnny, I'm here, it's time to play with me" When he died my parents told me he had fallen asleep forever (so I've been told, I don't actually remember any of this). So at his funeral, I saw him "sleeping" in a box. I climbed up on this convenient step stool (one of those Catholic kneely things) and climbed onto his chest in his sleeping box. I began to pat his face and tell him, "Wake up Uncle Johnny, I'm here, it's time to play with me" When I was 16, my grandmother related that story to me with tears in her eyes, and then said, "You were such a terrible awful spoiled brat and you should know that I will never forgive you for what you did to me at Johnny's funeral"
So if I'm not attentive, my memory can play tricks on me and lead me to believe that I deserve to hold a grudge. I deserve to nurse those wounds and keep them active and seeping.
But that is a lie. It is a lie of an enemy that wants me to be so distracted by wounds I don't allow to heal that I forget to worship and serve a God that is so much bigger then grudges and offenses.

But the longest list, the deepest wounds, the hardest things for me to forgive are the wounds I inflict on myself.
Stupid, ugly, fat, douchy, why would you say that, what were you thinking, of course you weren't invited, you're never going to make it, that 72 pounds of chocolate you just ate will probably not make you gain any weight, don't let anyone take your picture you'll break the camera, don't draw attention to yourself (you can pretend it's humility but it's just because you're not worthy of peoples attention and affection)....
On and on the list grows, the ugly hateful things that I say to myself. The self loathing I nurture and coddle as it grows and grows.

That my friends, as Beth Moore pointed out, is pride. Sinful pride. Who am I to think that it is all about me? Who am I to think so much about myself that I wound myself paralyzed and unable, uninspired, unmotivated to serve the God that freed me, that saved me, that sent his Son to die for me (me, me, me, me, me!)
I am not a confident person. I am more confident with those of you that I have known, those of you that I trust to show my weakness to (and those of you that are strangers on the internet). I am confident on behalf of other people, but I am not confident in the woman that God created me to be, I am not confident that I won't mess it up, I am not confident that my big mouth and prideful intentions won't get in the way of shining God's light in the world.

I'm right, in a way, to not be confident in those things. Because I am broken and flawed. But God isn't. My self-loathing, my almost constant focus on what I'm doing wrong takes away the focus from a truth I seem to have been missing all along.

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter that I'm broken, flawed, and downright falling apart some days. Because God isn't. He's like, God. God has a history of working in broken and damaged people. He has a reputation for taking the ugly and making something beautiful out of it.
What I haven't been able to grasp, or to even see is, that God doesn't see that terrible awful spoiled brat that my grandmother decreed that I was. God doesn't say that he will never ever forgive you. God doesn't hold grudges.
God forgives and he keeps no records of wrong. God makes beauty out of pain, joy out of sorrow, and light out of darkness.

Out of the depths I call to You, LORD!
Lord, listen to my voice;
let Your ears be attentive to my
cry for help.
LORD, if You considered sins, Lord, who
could stand?
But with You there is forgiveness, so that
You may be revered.
I wait for the LORD; I wait, and put my hope
in His word